


daemonic

by Anonymous



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Justice League (2017), Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Secret Identity, canon as a sandbox, daemon AU, different justice league origins, lowkey cryptid Batman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:08:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25937185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Kryptonians don't have daemons; it's not that they don't have souls, not at all. It's just another curious human thing, intriguing and different.So that's probably why they send Clark to go face whatever supposed daemonic monster is haunting the streets of Gotham City.
Comments: 42
Kudos: 135
Collections: Anonymous





	1. rumors

**Author's Note:**

> housekeeping/an explanation: 
> 
> Started as an art project to pair fandom with some wildlife drawing practice, then realized i am not good enough of an artist to convey the stories i wanted without writing them out. Been recently obsessed with his dark materials (if you haven’t read/watched it, go do both) and dc in particular, and this is the result. 
> 
> If you’re not familiar w/hdm or daemon aus and you still clicked on this story, it’s just daemons are a physical representation of your soul. Or something. I think visual puns and symmetry are better, but that’s just me. I tried to cram more exposition on daemons into the story itself, so there's that too.
> 
> Speaking of, general disclaimer, this is meant to be a little loose, a little over-the-top in a way that means I’m just kind of having fun in this sandbox. I did not do painstaking research (except for the names, and species of bats), and this is very much not any sort of commentary on anything (except that if I saw bat with a wingspan bigger than my whole self I would die immediately) - it’s just a silly au based on fandoms I like, and tropes/storylines I think are fun. And I hope you have fun reading!
> 
> Plan so far is gonna have one “main” storyline, and then a bunch of character study sort of things. We’ll start with the story:

There are rumors about Gotham, about the...entity of the city. Of course there are rumors. 

Some claim it’s a monster that haunts Gotham. Some horrid creature, too independent to be a normal daemon, too calculating to be a wild animal. The hushed whispers wonder if it’s the result of what happens when a human dies, but its daemon is left behind, tortured and alone. 

Some say that there’s no creature, that only the superstitious and cowardly still believe in monsters like that. That what lives in its dark alleys is a person. Or, what used to be a person - a daemonless thing, something ripped from its soul that shouldn’t be alive, and stalks the streets like a ghost seeking vengeance. 

The only certain things about these rumors seem to boil down to a few things: the entity is alone - humanless or daemonless, it’s only one half of whatever it is. It targets violent criminals, but it never kills them. And it’s always heart-stoppingly terrifying. 

Clark...isn’t sure what he believes. 

Daemon or human- neither of those things are exactly in his wheelhouse. Kryptonians don’t have daemons. It’s not that they don’t have souls, Kara has explained, but what souls they have are kept out of sight. Otherwise they’d be lifeless husks, like any human severed away from its daemon

Growing up, his parents had allowed him to raise a mouse - or, rather, a series of mice, and a few times one of the baby chicks - to carry around in his pocket to show anyone nosy enough to ask. “Kerry’s shy,” he’s said, a million times over, from his childhood to the day he discovered his inheritance. 

Because of all the gifts Krypton had given him, another way to pass as human is probably one of the most dear. Kryptonian technology has created a mimic for him. She’s technically alive, made of more sunlight energy than matter, and still named Kerry-the name now short for Ker-el. She’s adapted to him, and he to her, her artificial mind somehow so much older and younger than his. 

It was only after he’d met her, he began to understand how lonely he’d been without one. 

But now, a small bluebird that sits on Clark Kent’s shoulder and whispers in his ear, just a man and his soul for all to see. 

Superman remains daemonless. On good days, the media talks about how it means he’s truly an alien, evidence of worlds beyond. On bad days, the preferred term is ‘inhuman’. 

It's a bad day when he arrives in Gotham City, on Perry’s orders to interview some clean energy proponent who’s throwing a benefit, and with secondary orders from the team to find out what exactly the thing living in Gotham is: a human, a daemon, a rumor, a threat. 

The meeting had been brief, as they always are - all these people wanting to do good, all this power between them, and the fledgling, so-called Justice League can never seem to hold an agenda for more than a few hours. Clark would be embarrassed, if he weren’t so busy trying to mediate half the time. Even Diana, a warrior who knows how to command a room and prepare a battle strategy, is usually reluctant to step in between some of the pettier squabbles. The decision to even approach the rumor in Gotham had taken forever.

“There’s gotta be something else.” Hal knocks on the table, glancing at Victor. “On the whole wide web, this is seriously all you could get?” 

“That’s all there is,” Victor shoots back, rewinding the video. “Trust me. The whole wide web. That’s it.” 

They all watch the screen in silence, the shadow on the screen barely visible in the low light. It’s angled at a darkened fire escape, rails glinting from the streetlamp. 

There’s...something...perched behind the bars. Something dark, something enormous, something nearly impossible to see through the video’s grain. It seems to shift, expand, then pitches forward on the rail, falling and gliding into the dark of the alley

“Go back - there, pause it,” Clark says, squinting completely unnecessarily. “Can you enhance it at all?” 

Victor shakes his head, absentmindedly patting the sharp-eyed little ermine sitting upright and alert on the table monitor. 

“It’s already enhanced.”

They all squint at the shadow mid-fall. It offers them no more clues. 

“So, it’s a giant...blob of darkness.” Hal nods around at them, grinning. “Hey, I’ve fought weirder before. Beaten them, too.”

“We are not planning to fight the protector of Gotham,” Diana says sternly. Hal’s smile falters and even the chinchilla on his shoulder seems to shrink as Zotikos’ great golden eyes turn to stare at the pair. “We just want to find out more about them.” 

“I have a friend who has a friend who has a sister in Gotham,” Barry says in a single breath. He’s distracting to look at, as Leena darts around his head, wings whirring. “And she said it can change its shape based on what the person seeing it fears most.” 

“Like a boggart? Like from Harry Potter?” Clark asks, brow furrowing. Barry’s face lights up. 

“Superman has read Harry Potter? Holy crap, who’s your favorite-” 

“Boggart?” Hal laughs, seeming to have regained his swagger. “Why not the bogeyman? Barely any passable footage, a mysterious entity that conveniently can’t be identified by a daemon? It’s not real, Flash, I wouldn’t be surprised if it's a collective hallucination.” 

Arthur snorts from his place at the end of the table, a seal-bark laughing echoing him from behind his chair. 

“Really, Lantern? This thing beats up criminals, you think that’s a hallucination?”

“I don’t see how my idea is more ridiculous than boggart -” 

“Guys, can we -” Clark waves his hands at them, sighing. This is what he’s talking about. 

“But what if it is real, and it turns on us?” Barry is saying, Leena flitting by his head. “We barely know anything about it, what if we’re antagonizing it by just going there? Like when you open a ouija board or-” 

“-caused by something in the water or-”

“Lantern, what do you call that video-” 

“Enough.” Diana’s voice rings through the room. She looks to each of them in turn. “If we only ever have fear for what is strange, we will never discover more about it. Whatever resides in Gotham may seem...uncanny, but that is no reason not to extend our hand.” 

“It has never killed anyone,” Zotikos adds softly from her side, shaking his gleaming mane. “Who or whatever it is, it bears itself with restraint.” 

“And I’ll be the one going,” Clark adds. “So even if it does get violent, at least no one will be hurt.” 

“But what if it is a supernatural entity?” Victor asks, frowning. “You’re not impervious to magic, right?” 

Clark smiles reassuringly. 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clark - Kerry/Ker-el, bluebird (but not really)  
> Diana - Zotikos, Nemean lion (yes, from the legend)  
> Victor - Raïna, ermine  
> Barry - Colleen "Leena", ruby-throated hummingbird  
> Arthur - Callia, leopard seal  
> Hal - Remi, chinchilla


	2. first contact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things actually start to happen in this chapter! Thanks for the kudos!

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he says again, folding his socks as he puts away Clark Kent’s uniform into the suitcase.

First night in Gotham, and just from the taxi he’d already watched a brightly adorned convertible scream past a red light in front of him, the hyena daemon in the back seat laughing hysterically as the woman driving - also cackling - tossed firecrackers over her shoulder into the street. He’d almost made a comment to the cabby, when a moment later a fleet of police cars flew by with wailing alarms.

It wasn't...extremely encouraging.

“But the Cyborg wasn’t wrong,” Kerry whispers in his ear as he locks his hotel room and speeds to the roof. She watches him unhappily from the concrete, fake wings fidgeting. “If it comes to a fight, the gifts of Krypton will not help you against magic. And I cannot be there with you to warn you if I sense something.”

“I don’t want to fight, I just want to talk.” He smiles at her, not for the first time regretting that he’d started out as Superman without a daemon, so she could come with him. It’s far too late to change it now. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

And with that, he shoots into the sky.

For a short while, he just watches the city from above, trying to think of where to start. He doesn’t really have a plan beyond scanning the streets, but then he spots a carjacking in a back alley, and well, he can’t just watch it happen, can he?

He’s just about to glide down when he detects the faint sound of irregularly beating wings — approaching very, very quickly. Something swoops past him, and he catches just a glimpse of wings too dark to be a confused seagull, too loud to be an owl, too featherless to be a bird at all. It speeds past him, flying almost spastically, as it spirals down into the alley.

Clark hesitates, watching intently.

It doesn’t even touch the carjackers - they must hear it coming, glancing to the barely-visible sky before shouting unintelligibly and sprinting away as it descends like a vengeful shadow.

The alley is empty by the time it lands, the car untouched and silent. 

The…creature lands atop it without a sound, even Clark’s enhanced vision from above warped by its shifting limbs, completely black and blending in the shadows.

“I see you,” a voice whispers, too low to have a tone - it could have been threatening, or angry, but it’s impossible to tell. It must know he can hear him, from so far away.

“Come down.”

Almost abashed, Clark descends. As much as he would have liked to been more prepared for a first meeting, what with the little they know about Gotham, Clark guesses this is about what he should have expected.

He examines the form as he descends, trying to catalogue what apparently very few people in the world even have footage of.

The creature is…a bat. A bat unlike he’s ever seen before, wingspan as wide as the car it’s crouched on and folded like drapes over a skeleton, darker than the buildings around it.

He lands before it, making certain his feet touch the ground.

It’s eyes are glinting and intelligent, sunken back into its head, and it peers at him with something Clark hopes isn’t malice. It isn’t exactly easy to read a bat’s face.

“You are the alien from Metropolis,” it rasps, unblinking.

“Yes,” he says, trying to keep his voice unthreatening, no matter how unsettled he feels. “Are you the…”

 _Creature_...seems mean. _Beast_ , equally so, and Clark really doesn’t want to get off on the wrong foot here. He clears his throat, remembering Diana’s words.

“Are you the protector of Gotham?”

The creature stares at him for a moment, limbs twitching imperceptibly.

Then it laughs - he thinks it’s laughing, the soft hush of breath that it emits could easily be coughing, but something in its eyes seems like mirth. Clark holds his ground, trying not to cross his arms in embarrassment.

“Is that a no?” he asks. The bat grins - as much as a bat can grin - its teeth are very sharp and white against its dark gulley of a mouth.

“Flattering choice of words,” it hisses, still grinning. “Didn’t want to call me a monster?”

Clark fights the urge to fidget his hands, wishing Diana had come instead. She would think him being mocked by the local cryptid they’d all half-feared to talk to was hilarious.

“Are you the one fighting criminals in the city?” he asks, because he can’t waste all night here making a fool of himself. “Or are you their daemon?”

The creature’s eyes narrow, teeth vanishing. And somehow, their absence is more threatening, because it feels as though the thing is going to pounce.

If it’s a daemon, it likely wouldn’t because of the taboo of a soul touching other beings, but his confidence in that theory is waning by the second. Daemons... don’t behave like this. They don’t roam cities alone, descending onto criminals, blocks away from their person - Clark has looked, and there’s not a single human in the nearby buildings this creature could possibly belong to.

This...might just be something entirely new.

“This is my city,” the bat hisses, seeming to grow larger with every word. “No one else’s. And I don’t want someone like you in it.”

Clark ignores the barb, trying to interpret the words.

“So you’re alone?” He winces - he hadn’t meant it that way, but the bat bristles. “I mean, it’s just you, that I’ve been hearing about?”

“I said, I don’t want you here.” The creature shifts, limbs tensing as it turns away.

“Wait - I just want to talk. ”

“Leave.”

Clark grits his teeth.

“Hear me out, and I’ll go.”

The bat lets out a low hiss, the shadow of its wings expanding around it.

“Leave this city, or I make you leave.”

“Fine!” Clark bites out, frustrated. He lifts off, the bat’s eyes glued to him, glinting. He regathers himself, tossing down the communicator it would probably be too much to hope the bat will take. “But if you want to talk, just call.”

_______

Clark is not in the habit of eavesdropping on conversations between humans and their daemons - it’s personal, he knows, private dialogue between someone and their own soul.

But he’d spent the day prepping for his interviews, listlessly scrolling from one article about the benefit’s host he’s supposed to talk to falling from a B-list celebrity’s boat to another, ironing his rental suit between note-taking and very nearly catching his blazer on fire. And now he’s been waiting to talk to that first, nautically-challenged interviewee for ten minutes too long in a grossly opulent room, and his jacket smells a little too much like burnt nylon, and he still hasn’t called Diana about last night’s meeting with the Bat.

So when there’s a loud crash he initially doesn’t realize it’s a floor above him. He immediately casts his hearing to check the commotion. Someone curses, and then he doesn’t realise he’s listening to an argument until a dry, creaky voice speaks.

“I told you not to put weight on that ankle.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“He was being nosy.”

“Minka.”

“I stand by my words.”

There’s an audible sigh. Clark is just about to rein in his hearing, his mother scolding him in his mind’s eye for eavesdropping when another voice speaks up.

“If you two are done bickering with yourselves, I believe there’s a reporter waiting for a word in the hall downstairs. I suggest you don’t keep him for too long, as I’m certain he has others at this benefit with which to speak.”

“Yes sir,” the two voices - what must be the man he’s supposed to interview, the owner of the venue, and his daemon - chorus.

He listens for the footsteps as they trace their way down the stairs, following two pairs of beating hearts.

“Bruce, you would have said exactly the same thing, just in a ruder way. I-” the dry voice hisses, and that’s when they come into view.

The older man is keeping stride with what looks to be an enormous Irish Wolfhound. It’s a bit startling to see such a large dog next to such a thin and unimposing figure, the kind of daemon you see more in the military, not domestic service. But of course, Clark reasons, everyone has a past, and he’s sure this man hadn’t always been a butler.

Behind him, saunters a man Clark recognizes from tabloid spreads, the kind Lois turns her nose up at and dumps in the recycling bin whenever she catches them on someone’s desk.

Bruce Wayne is dressed in a suit likely worth more than Clark’s entire closet, hair slicked and shiny in the well-lit hall. He looks supremely unconcerned, tapping away at his phone considering the just-visible limp that prompts Clark to take a peek at the mess of bruises painted up his ankle beneath his sock.

Perched atop Wayne’s shoulder is a sharp-beaked black and white bird.

Prepping for the interview, Clark had read the other night about the supposed traits of a magpie daemon, and been completely stumped.

“Bruce Wayne?” Lois had said to him when he’d called her. “The man’s harmless, even if he is revoltingly rich. But he doesn’t have enough braincells for me to hold anything against him besides. Personally, I think he’d be better off with a golden retriever.”

Chatty, sure. Opportunistic, maybe - he is a businessman. Daring - the man apparently does a ridiculous amount of extreme sports, to which Clark is attributing the sprained ankle.

But according to knowyoursoul-dot-hdm-dot-com, every bird from the Corvidae family were generally regarded as intelligent. And everyone Clark has asked, has charitably described Bruce Wayne as charming, well-meaning, and dumber than a brick.

“Mr. Kant?” His smile is wide and flat as he shakes Clark’s hand. “Bruce Wayne! I believe I owe you a few words before we proceed to the festivities?”

“It’s actually Kent, of the Daily Planet.” Clark smiles patiently. It’s going to be a long night. “But you can call me Clark.”

“I won’t be calling anyone anything before I get a drink- Al? Would you mind?” He waves a hand at the butler, who nods precisely.

“Certainly.”

Clark tries not to be fidget as the magpie flutters down to join Kerry on the edge of the coffee table, trading whispers.

“You’ll forgive Minka. She’s a talkative one.” Bruce winks. “Nothing on the record for her, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. Kerry's a professional,” he tries to joke, and doesn’t expect it when Bruce laughs, a full-belly laugh.

“Good to hear, Clark, I like it! Now let’s talk about the sun, or, sun power, or whatnot.”

Clark freezes up for a fraction of a second, and Bruce squints at him, clearly catching it.

“That’s the right one, right? Alfred, we’re doing those sun farms, not the wind ones? I honestly get it mixed up.”

“Solar energy is correct, Master Wayne.”

Clark scolds himself for the paranoia, and holds out the recorder, fumbling it slightly. Wayne watches him, looking amused.

“Do you mind?” Clark asks.

“Not at all,” he waves a hand lazily. “But I’d love to get this over with, can’t let them drink all the champagne without me.”

The remainder of the interview goes...shockingly well.

It’s pretty clear from the beginning that Lois was right - Wayne is surprisingly polite, and when Clark mentions Smallville, is disarmingly genuine when he asks about their local economy -“See, I just love the country, something so clean about it, if you ever have problems with land repossession you just call one of my lawyers-“ and seems to be reciting whatever his board members told him about the green energy program - “They wrote it all down for me because I tend to get a little, ah, let’s say off-track - ”

But beyond an avid interest in repeatedly refilling his drink, a kind of charming, idiotic earnestness, and an obscene amount of wealth, Clark can’t see there being a lot to Bruce Wayne.

“-and then it turns out, the whole time, I wasn’t even talking to the right person! the real CEO was still waiting in the lobby!” Bruce laughs, throwing back another sip of whatever he’s been drinking.

“That's pretty funny,” Clark chuckles, in what he hopes comes across as authentic.

“Eh, ‘m glad somebody thinks so. My board of directors sure didn’t!” He barks out another laugh, setting his glass down. Kerry is chirping softly to Minka again, though the two have been observing the conversation closely.

  
“Well, those are some pretty good stories, I think it’ll make a fantastic spread to go with the green energy publicity statement. Oh, and…”

He hesitates, because he’s guessing urban myths aren’t exactly party gossip for these kinds of people. But, he reasons, if Bruce Wayne, of all people, has heard of anything, then maybe it’s a bigger phenomenon than he thought.

“Just, one last thing, if you don’t mind. What do you know about the supposed, ah, monster of Gotham?”

Bruce rolls his eyes.

“This again?”

Clark raises his eyebrows, genuinely taken aback.

“You’ve been asked about this before?”

“Every out of towner asks. Apparently some big, red and blue alien flying through the sky a state away isn’t interesting enough, so you guys come in and go hunting for some local cryptid.” He leans forward, drink spilling a bit as he points a finger at him. “Watch yourself, Clark, this isn’t Metropolis. The only thing reporters find in our back alleys are people looking to relieve you of your lunch money.”

“So you don’t think it - or he, if some of those rumors are true - is real?’

Bruce leans back, and Minka flutters his shoulder, turning her eyes on Clark.

Clark has always felt it a bit strange, to be watched in two different ways by what amounts to the same person. But something about these two gazes is downright eerie. Minka's eyes are as shiny as Bruce's are dull, and there’s some current of condescending mirth in his voice as he speaks.

“I think people let their imaginations get away with them.”

Kerry, returning to his own shoulder, makes a small noise. Clark coughs, jumping up.

“Well, you could be right.” He holds out his hand, and Wayne shakes it, still watching him with benign amusement. “Thanks for the interview, Mr. Wayne. Enjoy the night.”

Wayne throws back his glass, saluting lazily.

“Be careful out there, Clark.”

-

Walking away Clark tunes out the muttering behind him, instead making sure the interview recording saved and tucking it securely into his jacket. He feels Kerry twitch against his shoulder, and sighs.

“Well, at least that wasn’t as agonizing as I thought it would be. Lois is right, he’s friendly enough, but that daemon-“

“She knows.”

Clark stops dead, one hand on the door to the main hall. He listens back, but Bruce is walking back upstairs next to his butler.

“What?”

Kerry looks up at him from his shoulder, fluffing up.

“Minka,” she hisses. “She knows I’m not a daemon.”

Clark ducks into the large hall, immediately dazzled by the light, the deafening babble of voices and the chime of glass. He sticks to the wall, finding refuge next to a large, fake-looking ficus behind a pillar.

He holds out his hand, and Kerry perches on it, facing him.

“What do you mean?” he whispers. “How do you know? Did she say something?”

Kerry shakes her head, wings twitching.

“I...the way she looked at me…” Kerry twitters an alarm, and they both fall silent as a partygoer stumbles past them laughing. They wait until the tail of the Great Dane daemon following him has vanished around the pillar, then Kerry stares up at him again. “That man is not as stupid as he seems. Not with a daemon like that.”

“Maybe she’s just rude?” Clark suggests. “A look isn’t much to go off of, Ker. She is Bruce Wayne after all, and having as much money as he does usually gives people a sense of…superiority.”

Kerry shakes her little head.

“Trust me, Clark. He isn’t what he seems. They know.”

“Well, what’s he going to do about it? If he's secretly a genius, why fall off of a yacht every other week? A business play? He doesn’t strike me as the type for intrigue, but if he connects the dots….”

Kerry clicks her beak, flitting back to his shoulder.

“Your phone is ringing. It will be Diana. You should duck out, find a place to talk about this freely.”

He does so, finding his way to an empty servants corridor where he can still keep an eye on the party through only a single layer of wall.

“Diana?”

_“Clark. How is Gotham City?”_

“Actually…” He trades a look with Kerry. “Pretty bad.”

_“What’s wrong? Did you encounter who we were looking for?”_

Honestly, the Bat had completely fled his mind. Clark sighs.

“I sure encountered something. But-hey, I actually need- there's a problem.”

 _“What kind of problem?”_ Diana asks. _“What did they say?”_

“It’s - well, it’s not that. I think...I think someone here may know about Kerry.”

Diana pauses, Clark scanning the hall around him to make sure no one is approaching.

_“Did something happen?"_

“Look…” In the main hall, he spots Wayne making his way across the room, maneuvering around a large ox daemon that's standing in the center of the room, patting the shoulder of its person as he does. “Is there any way you could ask Victor to do a bit of digging on someone?”

______

Clark leaves early. He can’t help it, watching that maybe-not-so-idiotic man sashay around the room, knowing he knew...well, something. He already has an obscenely wealthy genius as an enemy - he doesn’t need two.

His other two interviewees of the night had never even shown up to the party, and no one seemed willing to give him the time of day anyway, so he ducked out.

He headed for the hotel, leaving Kerry to stay in touch with Victor if or when he found something that could possibly explain how Bruce Wayne of all people was steps away from stumbling over his identity.

Now he sits, watching the city below, listening for screams or the sound of leathery wings - or both.

Far away, the venue glitters.

He floats there for several uncomfortable minutes, almost torn between respecting the Bat’s demands, and stopping what he thinks is about to turn into another carjacking. Gotham is...kind of a headache. But before he can act - he can’t just _let_ it happen, not when he’s right there - a spotlight is suddenly light shining directly in his face.

He dodges out of the beam, alarmed. It doesn’t follow him, but he still darts into the clouds for good measure, looking down.

He tracks the light source, to the roof of what looks to be a police precinct, if the sounds coming from inside the building are anything to go by. He moves his gaze back to the roof, drifting down.

Next to the spotlight a single man stands waiting, coffee in hand and a red squirrel perched on his shoulder.

It’s then Clark realizes that the beam had not even been directed at him. It’s coming from a spotlight across which an enormous metal bat is stretched like a pinned animal. Looking up, he can see the distinct shape projected onto the low clouds.

Clark hesitates. He should leave this alone. The creature he’d met had told him on no uncertain terms to leave. But the man is alone, and Clark doesn’t think he’s ever been presented with a more obvious clue, and he can hear Lois egging him on.

He can’t seem the harm in just asking a few questions.

“Well,” the man says, eyes widening as Clark touches down in front of him. “I’ll be damned. Wasn't sure if I would have believed you were here, if I didn’t see it with my own eyes.”

He offers his hand, which Clark takes, pleased.

“Welcome to Gotham City, Superman. Commissioner Jim Gordon. It’s an honor. This here's Dana.” The squirrel nods solemnly. 

“You knew I was here?” Clark can’t help but ask. The man picks his coffee back up from the building rail, sipping it and glancing off into the dark.

“I was informed.”

Clark studies the man.

“Were you informed that I just want to talk?”

Gordon waves a hand at him, shrugging.

“Look, whatever you want to say to each other, I'm sure is above my pay grade. But I feel like it’s fair to tell you that he’s not the kind of man who gives out information freely.”

The squirrel on his shoulder shifts, whispering something in his ear.

“Dana's got a good question though - why are you here, talking to me? He didn’t say much, but enough to give me the impression you were leaving.”

“I’m not - “ he catches himself, suddenly understanding the wording. “Man?”

Gordon’s face hardens, and the squirrel’s tail twitches, eyes sharp.

“You want information. He _did_ tell you to leave.”

“I just want to talk,” Clark says again, but the way Gordon hunches his shoulders reminds him of the bat’s wings tensing as it took off.

“The bat will tell you what the bat wants you to know.” He frowns, pulling his coat around him as the wind picks up. “And it doesn’t sound like you’ve been told much, so it won’t be me who breaks the trust, so to speak.”

“You won’t be breaking trust if you just tell me-”

“I’m sorry, son.” At least he does sound sorry, because Clark is kind of taken aback at how quickly Superman’s awe-inspiring effect had vanished. _Gotham_. “But if you’re the kind of soul I think you are - and I’ll be damned that I can’t tell by looking at you - then you’ll understand that I can’t tell you a thing.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

The man fixes him with a glare, half-obscured by the signal’s light glancing off his thick glasses.

“Won’t.”

Clark, feeling irrationally stung, nods.

“Very well. I...respect your integrity, Commissioner.”

He ends his search early. The Commissioner had a point, about being told to leave; there's no point in staying and directly disrespecting the Bat's wishes. That's no way to build trust. But still, gazing at the signal from the relative safety of his hotel, Clark can't help but wonder about the kind of person who has a soul as off-putting as they come in appearance, and still inspires that kind of loyalty. 

-

Back on the roof, minutes after Superman takes off, Jim Gordon sighs. He takes another sip of his coffee, Dana absently twitching her tail as she gazes at the signal. 

"I know you're there," he says aloud, just in case. He wouldn't put it past the pair of them to have some sort of cloaking to hide from Superman, but he can't be sure if the Bat, or the Man, are going to even be making an appearance tonight. "Far be it from me to tell you how to live your life, but one thing I know?" 

He takes another sip, draining the cup. There's no sign the shadows are listening. 

"Everybody needs friends." 

It might have been his imagination, but he likes to think he heard the faint whisper of something - a cape, wings - as he turned and headed for the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alfred - Niamh, Irish Wolfhound  
> Bruce Wayne - Minka, black-billed magpie  
> Commish Gordon - Dana, red squirrel  
> ??? - ???, a giant fucking bat (actually a black flying fox, but unnaturally large even for that species) 
> 
> confused about Bruce/Batman's daemon situation? Hang in there, all will be revealed! And yes, that was Harley in the convertible- next chapter's gonna be an interlude on Gotham rogues, and then back to the story!


	3. story break: rogues

The thing about the Joker, is he’s not what you would expect. 

All the rest of the Gotham rogue gallery are more or less predictable. Oswald Cobblepot and his little Rockhopper penguin waddle out of bars and into limos, the man named for his soul, an easy guess if you know who you’re talking about. 

Catwoman is just as straightforward. She didn’t pick her name, but the few times people have caught sight of her on a job, it’s hard to miss the mottled grey shadow slinking at her feet. A cat daemon, a cat burglar. She thinks it’s quite funny. 

Jonathan Crane has his oversized grasshopper - the kind of rustling, dry-winged pest you’ll find in parched cornfields, clinging to the sleeves of a scarecrow for which he calls himself after. 

Dr. Pamela Isley might be more plant than person, but she’s still got a human soul. One that creeps and buzzes and nobody sees until it’s too late to look because they’re already writhing in pain. Which is a pity, because tarantula hawks are quite beautiful insects to look at, despite how painful their sting. 

Riddler is trickier, but that’s likely by design; the man likes to have people guess what form his soul takes. She’s small, and she’s quiet, but she’s there, a scrawny black-footed ferret usually hidden somewhere in his bright jacket. 

But see, the Joker is harder. People expect big, they expect monstrous, they expect the bristled, cackling hyena that Dr. Harleen Quinzel’s soul had taken the shape of long before she’d ever even heard of a clown-themed criminal. Very few living people have seen the Joker’s daemon, which has made popular the myth that he doesn’t have one at all. (He certainly acts like it.) 

But no, he’s still just a man, and he has a soul like anyone else. She’s a small thing, a pitiful thing, all bent-limbed and emaciated and even paler than him. Her tail is naked, a rotted scaly thing that drags behind her when she skitters across the ground. You’d think her eyes would be red, the way albinism patterns most creatures. But her eyes are whiter than her bone-bleached fur, murky and milky from every angle.

A lab rat, they say. No one is quite sure if this was done to her, if the Joker had really experimented chemicals on his own soul, his own person after the incident at Ace Chemicals, or if they’d fallen to the same fate. All the same, one of his henchmen once made a crack about running mazes, and had soon after been reported missing. 

They say he feeds her meat, that he lets her gnaw on the flesh of whatever fresh body might be lying around. In Arkham, she sticks to the walls, eluding the jaws or claws of whatever orderly’s daemon is tasked with catching her. Once, they say, she bit through the neck of a squirrel daemon, one of the psychoanalysts who hadn’t been paying close enough attention, and the man had died on the spot as his daemon bled out while the Joker laughed and laughed and laughed. 

No one knows what her name is. No one cares to ask. They just warn you about the white eyes, blood-stained fur, the sound of skittering feet and the low echo of laughter that comes soon after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO be clear this is not intended to be Joker-glorifying (we do not stan) but creepy-crawliness was a must and if you've seen the movie 1922 you would be as scared of rats as I am 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!!


	4. encounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some random OC's because I didn't want to just keep saying 'the secretary'. Also, secretaries work hard, appreciate them. Have fun reading!

“So he is a human? A man?”

“Yes. Well, he - yes. If what the Commissioner let slip is true.”

Diana nods, frowning.

“But you spoke to a...creature, a Bat. Who claimed it was alone, without a person?”

Clark thinks back.

“The way it was worded, it would make sense for the Bat to be the man’s daemon. Just…”

“Just what?” asks Victor. He and Raina are combing through Jim Gordon’s online information, the man’s profile projecting onto the table. “Also, for the record, I’ve completely lost the bead on that tracker. Either the bat broke it or disabled its signal. Which takes some doing.”

“Man, bat, does it matter?” Hal interrupts. “Seems like neither of them are particularly keen on making friends. With you, at least. Maybe someone with an actually visible daemon should give it a try.” Remi chitters from his shoulder, flicking her tail haughtily.

“Hey, Superman’s probably the best at making friends out of all of us,” Barry says indignantly. “It’s not his fault some Bat-Man-monster-thing doesn’t like aliens who don’t look like they have souls.”

“...thanks, Flash.”

Barry grins, Leena whizzing by in a victory lap around the table.

“But you said the Bat was alone,” Victor points out, thankfully interrupting Hal as he opened his mouth again. “The Man was nowhere in sight. If that’s his daemon, he had to have been close by.”

“I looked everywhere,” Clark says truthfully. “There was no one I couldn’t match with their daemon nearby.”

“Maybe the Bat...turns into the Man?” Barry looks around the table. “A were-bat.”

“Flash, buddy,” Hal sighs. “That’s worse than boggart.”

“There are ways,” Zotikos speaks up from Diana’s side after a pause. His yellow eyes roam across their faces, ancient and calm. “which allow a person to distance themselves from their daemon, sometimes hundreds of miles. It is not unheard of.”

“Witches,” Arthur nods from the other end of the table. Callia lets out a low hiss from behind him. “Old magic.”

“We are not talking about magic,” Diana says. “Other things. There is training that some Amazonian’s have undergone, training even a human could hypothetically undergo. It is to lengthen the bond, an affirmation of identity in which a person’s link to their soul is no longer constrained by distance. A stretching of the soul’s connection.”

“So like...soul yoga?”

Hal snorts derisively, and Barry blushes, crossing his arms.

“What? She said stretching.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong buddy, I just think it’s a funny idea. Soul yoga.”

“It’s nothing to make light of,” Diana frowns. “It takes exceptional strength of mind and character, and can go horribly wrong if done improperly. People have been...ripped...apart from themselves.”

A collective shiver goes through the room, everyone putting a hand to their daemon. Leena lands on Barry’s shoulder, Callia shifting behind Arthur’s chair and Raina glancing up at Victor nervously. Clark tucks his hands behind his back, wondering what Kerry is doing at the fortress.

“If this Bat is the daemon of a living human, they both should be taken seriously,” Diana finishes, her hand in Zotikos’ mane. “I suggest we respect their wishes unless there we find a compelling reason not to. We have another problem to deal with in Gotham, besides. Kal?”

Clark steps forward, clearing his throat.

“As you know, Kerry believes that someone may know she is not a true daemon, which I’m worried could be a problem if he somehow connects the dots to Superman. He’s a CEO. Named Bruce Wayne.”

 _“Bruce Wayne?”_ Hal and Barry exclaim simultaneously.

“You mean,” Leena is back to hovering over Barry’s shoulder as he leans forward, face glowing. “The celebrity, Bruce Wayne?”

“He’s not a celebrity,” scoffs Hal. “He’s a celebrity the same way the Kardashians are celebrities, by being rich and flaunting it.”

“I have seen him at museum exhibitions before,” offers Diana. “He is always...very drunk.”

“Yeah, in about every picture I can find of him at parties, he’s holding a glass of something.” Victor clicks his tongue, sending the images to the table. “And there’s not a lot of nice articles about him either. The guy kinda looks like a mess.”

“Yeah, he’s an idiot.” Hal rolls his eyes. “Kerry was just being paranoid, Sups, Bruce Wayne can barely connect enough dots to keep his company afloat. Case closed, meeting adjourned.”

“That’s actually not true,” Victor interjects, eye still flicking side to side. “Even if his personal media looks...well, really bad, Wayne Enterprises has seen some of its most successful years since he returned from some kind of extended vacation, just a year or two ago. Looks like it does a lot for charity, now, too.”

“Whoop-de-doo, he hired some smart people. That doesn’t make him genius enough to figure out freaking Superman.”

“I don’t know, Lantern.” Clark frowns down at the picture in front of them, the daemon - Minka, her name is - perched on a chair and angled away from the camera so the glossy black of her wings catches the light like an oil spill. Bruce, sipping something at the cafe table next to her with a vacant smile. “You haven’t met them. Wayne is normal enough, but it felt like that daemon was the one with x-ray vision.”

“I’m just saying, we’re talking about the guy called the mayor the wrong name on live television. _Repeatedly_.” Hal snorts. “Even if he did know, what the hell would he do with that information? And who would believe him? It’s like Cyborg said. Guy’s a mess.”

“To be fair, his life is a pretty sad story,” Barry interjects. “His parents got shot, like, right in front of him when he was a little kid. They do a true-crime program on it every year.”

Arthur whistles, expression sympathetic. Clark’s heart twinges as Victor wordlessly pulls up the old articles, detailing the senseless shooting, the non-stop media storm that had followed.

He recognizes the butler - _family associate Alfred Pennyworth and his daemon Niamh_ , the captions read - in many of the images, the enormous Irish Wolfhound corralling a tiny scrap of a kid into limos and baring her teeth at the reporters.

“Guess I’d drink too much too, if cameras were in my face that much,” Hal mutters. “But tragic as all this is, how is it relevant to him maybe knowing Clark has no daemon?”

“If we learn about the man,” Diana says, and even Clark can tell her patience is thinning. Hal tends to have that effect. “We learn about what his actions might be.”

______

The plan is simple. That doesn’t mean Clark likes it. Whether it’s the air in Gotham, or the echo of sirens that seems near constant at times, he can’t help but shudder as he steps from the cab. Wayne Enterprises looms before him, glittering between its neighbors that look like they’ve come from an 18th century French novel. 

The gargoyles remind him a bit too much of the bat who had demanded he stay out of this city entirely. Well, demanded  _ Superman  _ stay out. 

Clark shrugs away the paranoia, trotting up the steps. 

Diana is supposed to go first, with her scheduled meeting as a representative to discuss some not-for-profit museum event. She’s their litmus test to see if Wayne will blab to just anyone about the strange reporter with no daemon. Highly unlikely, Clark is guessing, but it’s necessary to try. Plus, Zotikos wants to assess the man’s daemon, use whatever Amazonian senses he has to see if there’s anything truly off about her. 

Clark’s role is...less official. The plan is to tell Wayne he’s there for a follow-up interview. He’s counting on the man having thrown back about six glasses in front of him, to not be completely reliant on if or if not he scheduled one. Clark is not enthusiastic about that chance, and even less enthusiastic about hassling whoever runs schedules with an impromptu interview. But again, necessary. Because when Diana exits and they conveniently ‘meet’, she’s supposed to bring up her need for a reporter, and see if that sparks any kind of inquiry. 

The more Clark thinks it over, the more he realizes just how harebrained all this is. And that’s assuming it goes well. 

“There they are,” Kerry chirps, hopping down to his wrist as he opens the door for a tall man with a jackal daemon trailing behind him. They both spare him a glance and a nod, but Clark Kent is as nondescript as ever. As they enter, Clark spies Diana and Zotikos across the lobby, laughing with a secretary over something. He pretends to fiddle with his phone, waiting long enough for Diana to vanish into the elevator without even looking over. Zotikos’ tail vanishes with swish as the doors slide shut. 

“Hi,” Clark smiles politely at the secretary. His daemon looks up first, a gray rabbit that stares at him incuriously. “Nice to meet you uh…” he peeks down at the man’s plaque. “Leo. Clark Kent, reporter for the Daily Planet, I uh -” 

“Do you have an appointment with someone?” The secretary doesn’t look up from his screen. 

“Not...exactly. But I’m here to see Mr. Wayne?” 

_ That _ gets his attention. 

“You’re here to see the CEO of the company.” The secretary says tonelessly, staring him dead in the eyes. “Without an appointment.” 

Clark forces himself to smile blandly, to not cross his arms self-consciously beneath the man’s flat gaze. 

“That’s right.” 

The man stares for a moment longer, before letting out a long sigh and pulling his keyboard towards him. 

“Where did you say you worked again?” 

“Oh, I’m a reporter. See, I interviewed him at a party a few days ago, and there were a few questions he couldn’t answer,” Clark rambles. “So he gave me his word he’d let me do a follow-up today, but I never got a schedule, and my boss  _ really _ needs me to finish this article-” 

“Okay, hold on, hold on,” The secretary mutters, typing frantically into the computer.

“I’m really sorry, I know I should have probably called,” Clark continues, feeling genuinely sorry as the man’s brow furrows further at the screen. “It can’t be easy running all this, I know I was almost late here because the craziest thing happened where some guy in a green suit was standing in the road holding up traffic for almost half an  _ hour,  _ i -” 

“Oh, you’re  _ really _ not from around here.” The secretary chuckles, offering Clark a half-sympathetic, half-commiserating grin. “And no worries, Mr. Kent. And this sort of thing happens more often than you’d think, all the top-floor execs promising things willy-nilly, nevermind the people actually  _ doing _ the scheduling…” he trails off, glaring at the computer again.

Clark keeps trying not to fidget his hands, Kerry flitting down to exchange words with the gray rabbit. After several minutes of intense clicking, the secretary sighs and leans back.

“Yeah, I’m sorry Mr. Kent, I can’t do anything from here. His schedule is with his personal secretary.” Clark’s stomach sinks, but the secretary furrows his brow, leaning back to the computer. “But you know? Mr. Wayne’s kind of a weird guy, Anya - she’s his secretary - told me he sometimes just walks out of meetings, or lets in random people from the street.” The secretary hits a few keys, and the elevator opens behind them. “You seem alright. Plus, you aren’t wearing any weird, themed clothes, and that’s basically the number one thing we look out for.”

“Um.”

“So if you’ll head up to floor 40,” the secretary continues, “you’ll find Anya, and hopefully she can help you out. But better hurry, elevator’s quick.” 

Clark thanks him hurriedly, the man waving him away with an amused grin. Kerry flits after him, and the elevator door closes behind them. 

“Themed clothes?” Clark asks, bemused. Kerry shrugs her little wings. 

“This city is a strange place.” 

They ride the elevator in silence after that, Clark scanning the higher floors for Diana and Bruce Wayne. He spies Diana, after a moment, sitting in the waiting room that he’s fast approaching. They pull level, and he makes for the secretary’s desk, feeling Zotikos’ golden eyes on him. 

Before he can even open his mouth, the woman’s cricket daemon springing to her shoulder as she looks up, there’s a loud bang. The door flies open, and one Bruce Wayne steps out, magpie on his shoulder 

“Anya!” he exclaims, staring at his phone. “Have you seen this?” 

The woman rolls her eyes, mouthing ‘one second’ and turning to greet the man. 

“Is it another video of the Riddler from this morning? Because trust me, I was stuck in traffic for an  _ hour _ . I was there. I saw it.” 

“No, no, it’s - have you heard of Haly’s Circus? They’re coming to Gotham in a few months-”

Bruce seems to register the other occupants in the room. He looks from Clark to Kerry to Zotikos to Diana to Anya.

Anya’s cricket chirps. Diana coughs away a laugh as Bruce’s brow furrows. 

“Do I have work today?” 

“Yes, Bruce,” Anya sighs. “Ms. Prince is here to discuss an artifact at the Gotham History Museum, and Mr. Kent is here…” she glances surreptitiously down at her computer. “...to follow up on a meeting you had a few days ago. You told him to schedule one at the solar energy fundraiser.”

“Did I?”

Clark holds his breath as Bruce turns between the three of them, then turns again. He pointedly avoids the gaze of the magpie on his shoulder. 

“Huh. Well, I guess….” 

Minka tugs on his suit collar, and he claps his hands together. 

“Who’s first then?” 

-

Diana’s meeting is short - this is by design, a part of their plan to get to the point as fast as possible. They're counting on the 'gossip' aspect of Wayne's personality, vouched for by Hal and Barry. 

He can imagine it, _it was so strange, that reporter? Just the other day I talked to him, and you know what Minka told me? That daemon isn't real! Weird, huh? Well, come to think of it, I guess he bears some resemblance to the only other humanoid on the planet who doesn't have a daemon, do you think -_

Clark listens closely, pretending to study his notepad and confer quietly with Kerry.

Finally, after an admittedly interesting conversation about the new exhibit,  Clark hears Diana stand and begins her goodbyes. He can tell Bruce walks her to the door, where she pauses. Zotikos’ heavy paws stop next to her. 

“Oh, and I couldn’t help but notice - that reporter?” she starts. 

“What about him? He didn’t harass you for pictures, did he? I swear, you think you’ve bought a reliable paper and then -” 

“No, no, Mr. Wayne.” Clark is trying not to watch through the wall, since Anya would likely notice him staring raptly at nothing. But he glances up and squints for a brief second, watching Minka stare at Zotikos with glinting eyes as Diana continues. “I just thought I recognized him. I am not certain, but it's possible he may have covered that illuminated text exhibition, last May? I recall you attending. Do you know him, personally?” 

Clark watches Bruce’s face screw up, eyes lifting to the ceiling as if he were trying to remember. He hadn’t actually covered the auction, but that’s not the point here. 

“I...wouldn’t know?” Bruce’s voice lilts up. He smiles sheepishly, scratching his head. “I normally have a head for faces, but you’ll have to forgive me on this one, Ms. Prince. There’s...a chance I may have been having a bit too good of a time to notice the press. Minka, you got anything?” 

The magpie shifts her weight from foot to foot before answering, addressing Diana directly. 

“I’m sorry, Ms. Prince,” she croaks, unblinking. “I’m afraid we weren’t paying very close attention.” 

“Well, I was just wondering if you could recommend him,” Diana says, clearly trying to keep the topic on Clark. “I have an event coming up -” 

“They’ll be done soon, Mr. Kent.” Clark startles, as Anya’s voice interrupts his focus, and Kerry chirps in his ear as he clutches the notepad a bit too hard, the cardboard compressing in his hand. Anya’s face is sympathetic. “He doesn’t really do very long meetings on Fridays.” 

“No?” Clark glances at Kerry, thinking quickly. “When is he usually available? Is there another time I should reschedule?” 

Short of asking where Bruce Wayne spent his time when he wasn’t at WE, Clark is pretty sure he can at least see if he’s openly involved in some sort of criminal enterprise. 

Anya clicks through the computer, cricket hopping to her shoulder. As much as Clark wants to keep an ear on what’s left of Bruce and Diana’s conversation - and how much Bruce might reveal to a complete stranger - this could be important. 

“How about...Monday, three weeks from now, around 3?” She looks up at him expectantly. “Of course, he has to agree to all personal interviews, so it would ultimately be up to him.” 

“Uh.” Again, Clark hadn’t really expected to get this far. Does he want another meeting with this potential new Lex Luthor? “Do you have anything earlier?” 

She shakes her head. 

“Mr. Wayne tends to get in pretty late, especially on Mondays.” 

“Does-” 

“I hope you’re not discussing my personal habits with the press,” a voice says, as the door swings open. Anya jumps, hands smacking the keyboard. Bruce moseys out behind Diana, avoiding Zotikos’ tufted tail. He smiles blandly at them. “I wouldn’t want to come across as unprofessional. Ms. Prince, if you’ll wait a moment for me to introduce you to Mr. Kent, I have to deal with this...insubordination.” 

For a moment Clark is tense, opening his mouth to step in. If Bruce Wayne fires this woman on the spot he….he doesn’t know what exactly he’ll do. But it won’t bode well for their info-gathering mission on ‘ _does this man who might know my secret have ill intentions_ ’.

But then Anya snorts, and Bruce laughs carelessly, leaning an elbow on the desk and extracting his wallet.

“Anya, I believe it’s your lunch hour, so your punishment is bringing me back a cappuccino from that bistro with the little paper birds on the ceiling you go to. Here, keep the change.” 

Clark feels his mouth drop open slightly.

“This is a $100 bill,” Anya observes. 

“Is that not enough?” Bruce frowns, fiddling with his wallet and extracting another bill. “Here, take another, to be safe. I know they’ve jacked up prices - hang on, here’s the tip.” He smiles at Diana and Clark, who are both watching in bemusement. “Gotta keep on good terms with the barista, I owe her for helping me stay awake during board meetings.” 

Clark is slightly speechless as Anya finally exits, leaving the three of them alone with their daemons. He looks to Diana, then back at Bruce, who’s tucking his wallet back into his jacket. 

Minka fluffs her wings, looking as amused as a bird can look. 

“Now, Mr…” Bruce squints, turning to face him. “Kent? From the wind power party?”

“Solar,” Minka corrects, staring at Clark. Bruce waves a hand dismissively. 

“Good to see you again,” Clark says, pointedly not meeting the daemon’s gaze. 

“Yes, yes, well, Ms. Prince here wants a reporter, and you don’t seem like a complete hack, though I can’t say I remember why you wanted to follow up today -” 

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne.” Diana saves him, stepping forward and offering her own hand. “We’ve actually met, I believe, at another event. Diana Prince.” 

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet.” 

It’s weird to shake hands with her as if they’re strangers, but Kerry plays along well, fluttering down and nodding before Zotikos, who inclines his enormous maned head. Bruce doesn’t seem to even be paying attention anymore, tapping something on his phone with a frown. 

Clark takes a deep breath, ready for Diana to throw out their last piece of bait. He hadn’t told Diana on a whim, about the curious reporter with no daemon, but if Clark himself says something...

“Mr. Kent, may I say you don’t seem -” Diana starts, but Bruce heaves a heavy sigh. 

“I’m sorry, you two. You’ll have to get to know each other somewhere besides my office, as something’s come up.” He rolls his eyes, trading a glance with Minka. “I swear, I could do with another vacation. But duty calls!” 

He ushers them towards the elevator, apologizing profusely. 

“Kent, if you still want that follow-up, you’ll have to email Anya. Eleven? Eleven’s too early - two, in a few weeks? Good. Wonderful working with you, have a great -” 

The elevator door closes, and two of the most powerful people on the planet stare at each other in silence. Clark is painfully aware of the security camera, its mic functional by the sound of its high-pitched whine. 

“So…” he begins, not wanting to give anything away. 

“Gotham has some strange people, doesn’t it?” Diana muses, and Clark takes that to mean they’ll discuss it at the next meeting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	5. investments

It's not two weeks later, that Clark makes a mistake.

He takes a deep breath as he slows, spinning midair as he realizes where he is. The drone he’d been chasing - one of Lex’s - had led him much farther than he’d even thought possible. And now he’s standing with the drone in hand, perched on the very top of a skyscraper in Gotham City.

He half-listens for the beat of wings - he really should leave, but he can’t help look out over the city, the strange, twisted architecture so starkly different from Metropolis’ clean glass.

There’s a sound like metal uncoiling. A shadow moves in the corner of his vision.

Clark counts to five in anticipation, senses zeroing in on the shape as the realization dawns over him. For a moment, he considers just zipping out of the city altogether - no harm, no disrespect, and he doubts he’ll be followed out of Gotham.

But...this is his chance.

He touches down, holding one hand up in peace and wondering if the drone will look too much like a weapon.

Clark takes a deep breath, then gestures towards the shadow.

“It seems you inspire quite a bit of loyalty,” he begins, tone light. “Commissioner Gordon seems like a good man.”

The man watches him and doesn’t speak. It’s honestly already a better start than with his maybe-daemon. He’s keeping his ears open for wingbeats, or any unnerving hisses of laughter.

“It’s good to meet you,” Clark says. _The other half of you_ , he adds silently, but restrains himself in case he’s wrong, in case Barry’s insane were-bat theory is somehow not so insane. There are a lot of strange things in this world, and Clark knows that he of all people can’t discount anything.

The man remains silent, though, and he tries again.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“Why are you here.” The man’s voice is low and gruff, run through with some kind of modulated tone Clark is fairly certain is artificial. He holds up the drone sheepishly.

“Wasn’t intentional, I promise. But now I’m here, I.. I’d appreciate it if we could talk.”

The man studies him for a heartbeat more - each beat is slow and steady, and Clark isn’t sure if he should think it’s a good thing that this man isn’t scared of him or not.

“You already talked to me. To us. She told you to stay out of this city.”

Clark’s eyes widen. He recognizes he’s been given a gift, a confirmation of what he must have suspected Clark thought. He compares the two in his mind’s eye - the enormous, hissing bat, and this quiet, cloaked man before him who seems more shadow than substance.

The images fit pretty darned well.

“Say what you have to say and leave.”

Clark smiles awkwardly, stopping himself from floating forward. Now isn’t the time to seem pushy.

“I was hoping for more of a two-way conversation. Is there something I can call you?”

No response.

“Alright,” Clark sighs. “You know who I am, so I don’t have to get into all that. But I’m a part of a group of individuals who want the world to become a better place. We’re all unique, in our own way, with our own gifts and strengths that we use to fight bad people, bad things.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Why are you _here_.”

For all the similarities in how they carry themselves, the man’s gaze is nothing like the bat’s - where hers had been sharp, shining, his is just empty and cold. The white lenses might have something to do with it, and Clark is more off-put than he’d like to admit that there’s clearly lead lining the mask. Not that he’d been about to peek - he must have a reason, and Ma would have his hide if he blatantly disregarded anyone’s privacy like that on a whim.

“We wanted to reach out to you,” he says. “Open a dialogue.”

“To what end.”

“Well, we don’t know yet,” Clark responds, honestly. “But a start is a start.”

The man is silent again, and far away Clark locates the sound of leathery wings beating the air, distinguishable from the echo of car horns and the bustle of Friday night city streets.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

The man turns his opaque gaze on him.

“We’ll be in touch.”

__________

So it goes. Emergencies break out - big, scary, world-ending emergencies sometimes - and somehow one half of the Bat-Man duo always manages to show up in time to suggest strategy ideas that don’t immediately devolve into bickering or chaos.

Once, after a hoard of what Hal called ‘space locusts’ began ravaging towns in the east Rockies, both of them showed up, and it was clear for the first time just how well they fit together as a single being.

As different as they seem - the Bat is a bit more outspoken, nearing vicious at times, the Man slightly colder and more reserved - they compliment each other in the way people and daemons usually do.

After that mission, too, things change.

“Things need to change,” the Bat says bluntly to Diana and Clark, as they’re carrying debris off a road that the locusts had destroyed. The sun had set half-way through the battle, and she’s swooped to the ground before them, still startlingly large every time. The Man is nowhere in sight. “We’re not as synchronized as we could be.”

“We train together as often as we can,” Diana says, tossing a tire onto the pile of rubble. She’s looking at the Bat out of the corner of her eye in a way Clark knows. “That is, all who are on the team do.”

“I know what you’re implying, Princess,” the Bat replies, her voice raspy as ever. “We have Gotham to think about. There is no other place for us.”

“You have both proven yourselves over many times,” Zotikos says, batting a piece of metal off the road. “It would be an honor to continue to fight alongside you as teammates.”

“There is a place for you, if you want it,” Clark says, trying to contribute. He still now and then gets the impression that the Bat is laughing at him somehow, but it’s become less uncomfortable with every life he watches her save in battle.

“We’ll consider it,” another voice says, and if Clark hadn’t been floating, he would have jumped. The Bat huffs one of her maybe-laughs, as the Man walks past them, nodding. The Bat and the Man trade a long look, some kind of conversation going on that Clark is at a loss to interpret. After several seconds, the Bat nods.

“We will.”

_______

Things move quickly after that. The Man and the Bat, it seems, when they invest their energy into the whole ‘team’ idea, are the type to go above and beyond. Literally.

“What did you call it? The Watchtower?” Clark repeats, still in awe as he spins through the halls. Barry and Leena are darting, twin blurs, all around them, and Victor is laughing somewhere with Raina as they open up the computer interfaces. In front of him, the Man shifts, trading a look with the Bat at his side.

“We thought it...prudent, to have such a base of operations. Considering the scale of emergencies we handle.”

“So you built a space station,” Clark snorts, wishing Kerry were here. He’d have to find a way to sneak her onto the ship, so she could do her own exploring of the technology.

“That’s great, but how are we paying for this?” Hal says loudly. He seems a bit put-out, Remi stony and silent on his shoulder. “This is cool and all, but how are we supposed to trust this wasn’t made with blood money? You won’t even tell us who you are, and no offense, I’m pretty sure we would have heard in the news about some rich philanthropist with a daemon like yours. She’s not exactly subtle.”

“Hal,” Diana objects.

The Bat and the Man both turn to look at Hal simultaneously, and Clark does not envy him. Impressively, Hal manages not to shrink beneath them, and steps forward challengingly.

“Your concern is appreciated,” the Bat finally breaks the silence, addressing Hal directly. The angles of bone in her wings shift oddly beneath the artificial light. “But unnecessary.”

“And we’re expected to trust your word on that?” Hal looks to Clark and Diana, gesturing at the pair. “Really? Am I the only one who feels like I’m talking to a couple of Goosebumps characters? Does the whole haunted house vibe not bother anyone else here, and now they just happen to have enough money to build a freaking _space station?”_

“Hal, I’m an alien,” Clark points out. “From outer space. With no visible daemon. But you still trust me, don’t you?”

Before Hal can respond, the Man steps forward, eyes blank as ever.

“Lantern, your lack of trust is not unfounded. I don’t expect it, and you shouldn’t expect mine. But if this is going to work, trust that we at least share your interests.”

Hal meets his eyes for a solid three seconds, then darts to the Bat behind them. To Clark’s left, Diana is watching them avidly, her studied expression matching Zotikos’ golden gaze.

He wishes Kerry were here. The Bat and the Man have been nothing but direct and competent, if unnerving and distant. But there's still so much unknown about the two of them that sometimes it makes him wonder if they're being played. As much as Clark likes to believe the best in people, Kerry offsets that by being a touch more analytical and removed...but she's conveniently never around with Superman when the Bat or the Man are nearby.

“Fine,” Hal says, still glaring.

The Bat’s teeth stretch into a grin. Clark...Clark hopes they’re not making a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Questions? Theories? 
> 
> I am excited for next chapter (which will hopefully be up sooner than this one was) because I've got another story break lined up :) guess who?


	6. story break: a night at the circus

There’s a lot Dick remembers, and lot of it was beautiful - still is, in his mind’s eye. The colored lights. The vibrant fabric walls. The brilliant smiles of strangers in the crowd.

The twin explosions of golden dust, like stars collapsing. Those had been very beautiful, even if at first he hadn’t understood what they’d meant. He’d expected the gold to rain down, cover their bodies.

But the bodies remained still and red and unadorned.

Dick and Tsura had screamed with one voice.

And now, after, they’ve covered the bodies and emptied the tent, and Tsura is perched on his shoulder. She’s still a robin to match his mother’s, like they always did for performances. _My little robin_ , she’d say to him, and from her shoulder Yoska had lifted his wings and sang to Tsura as she flew circles around him.

Now, Tsura huddles against him, a deep, dark wave of emotion passing back and forth between them, the sensation that the earth is opening up to swallow them whole.

He. He wants to go back. He wants to go back, before the beautiful lights, before the snap of rope, back to the still-smiling crowds and the fantastic strangeness of strangers. Any moment would be better - the arrival in Gotham, Belara's brilliant wings flashing in the sun from his father's shoulder; the humming energy in their trailer as they laughed together and prepared for the performance; the beaming little boy whose daemon had transformed into a robin to match his Tsura and his mother's Yoska when they’d taken a photo together; the cheers of the crowd as they’d taken to the platforms.

Any one of those scenes would be better than the one Dick’s living in now. But every one of them seems too distant, now, to be real.

“They’re gone,” he says, staring into his hands. He’s half-hoping Tsura will correct him, will tell him to wake up, he’s being silly. “They're gone.”

He repeats the words in four other languages, the desperation in his voice feeling very disconnected from the emptiness in his chest. Tsura remains silent and still on his shoulder. She still hasn't shifted from a robin.

Then, on his other shoulder, something warm lands. He looks up, grabbing at the hand in some sudden fit of delusion that he’s being shaken awake, that his father’s hand is -

“We’re sorry,” a voice rasps, and it takes a moment for Dick’s vision to focus on the face. Sad, pale features. Eyes fractured with something he can’t name, an expression he’s never seen before on an adult. There’s a black and white bird on his shoulder who inclines her head, eyes liquid.

“I -” the man’s voice catches, and he clears his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

Dick feels Tsura press closer to him, letting out a small sorrowful noise. Her wing brushes Dick's cheek. She used to cuddle up between Yoska and Belara, tucked safely beneath their colorful wings. But now, now they'll never, never -

“They’re gone,” he says again, not meaning to. He thinks he might be crying, because there’s suddenly water dripping from his chin.

The man nods, squeezing his shoulder.

“I know,” he says, softly. “I know. My name is Bruce. I want to help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dick Grayson - Tsura, unsettled (for now!)  
> Mary Grayson - Yoska, European Robin  
> John Grayson - Balara, European Roller


	7. perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing fast and loose with ages and timelines, but the important thing here is that Bruce is in no way emotionally prepared to deal with parenthood of a very flippy and risk-taking child :)

The Man and the Bat slowly, slowly, become more ingrained in the team. It’s better when they’re both present - according to Barry, the sight of a daemon by itself, or the Man alone is akin to seeing someone walk around with half a head, or a hole in their chest - and even better they both seem to be in better humor as of late. The Bat sometimes laughs, of course, but it’s never been anything more than dry or exasperated, a challenging sound. The Man, though, has never more than cold and direct. And yet Clark could have sworn he actually smiled the other day when the Bat had muttered something to him Clark had been too polite to eavesdrop on.

Meanwhile, the Bruce Wayne issue has slowly faded from Clark’s mind, put at ease as the man appears more and more often in the news with a tiny, knock-kneed child. The boy was apparently orphaned at a circus Wayne attended, and Clark can put together the clues - famous orphan Bruce Wayne sees another poor kid get orphaned before his eyes, sees himself in him, and with what Clark doesn’t want to call _terrible_ impulse control, must have brought the kid in as a ward.

And despite some of the bad press - the kid getting kidnapped on his watch a few times, for one - Clark can’t really imagine someone who tips in hundred dollar bills and randomly gives a home to an orphaned child as some kind of evil mastermind.

It’s somewhat of a relief, but the curiosity doesn’t go away. There is something... _not_ normal about that daemon. About that man.

“What do you know about Bruce Wayne?” Clark asks one night, as they scroll through the Watchtower cameras. “You rescued his ward once, right?”

The Man pauses for a long moment. The Bat is in Gotham, as they often split up for duties between the League and Gotham. Clark doesn’t wholly mind. It’s a little strange to see, but as Clark is missing his own daemon, their separation from each other isn’t as viscerally offensive to him as some of the others. Barry still outright refuses to take watch if it’s only one half of the Bat-Man pair, and Hal tends to make so many snide remarks that he doesn’t get anything done.

“Yes,” The Man says finally. “The kidnapped child, last month.”

“You didn’t answer my first question. You know Gotham, you know the scenes there. Is Wayne involved in anything...unsavory?”

White lenses turn to look at him.

“Do you know something I don’t?”

Clark laughs.

“I think we both know that’s very unlikely, when it comes to Gotham. No, I was just asking, see…” The Man hasn’t looked away, and Clark suddenly realizes that this is the perfect opportunity to put down his fears for good. No one knows Gotham like him, no one knows who’s clean like he does.

“I met him, once, not as Superman. Kryptonians don’t have daemons, you know, because -”

“I’m aware.” The Man stops him. “I assume when you’re not Kal-el, you use some sort of mimic.”

“Yes. A very good one too, she’s Kryptonian, and even I wouldn’t be able to tell. But when I met Bruce Wayne - you know, ‘fell into a fountain at that one ribbon cutting ceremony’ Bruce Wayne - it felt like he knew. Immediately, she felt like his daemon zeroed in on it.” He looks up, to find the Man studying him closely. He waves a hand helplessly. “How do you explain that? Magic? Science? Even Diana doesn’t know.”

The Man takes another long time to answer.

“Bruce Wayne is no magic-user, nor is he developing any daemon-detecting technologies I am aware of. But.” His jaw shifts. “Did he ever say he knew, or give any indication aside from your mimic’s impression?”

“Well - no,” Clark admits. “But Ker - Ker-el is very advanced. She doesn’t usually make false assumptions. There really is something fishy about him, Diana and Victor think so too. The guy acts like an idiot in the news, but Victor’s been keeping track of WE’s performance.”

“And what did Victor find.”

Clark nods, encouraged at the interest in the Man’s voice.

“Well, there are a lot of charities he’s opened up and been funding, even when there’s no real profit for the company.”

The Man’s mouth twitches.

“You’re concerned...he’s donating to charity.”

“But I just - can you look into Bruce Wayne, with your resources in Gotham?”

The Man’s jaw shifts more. Clark sighs, sensing the conversation is about to come to an end.

“To my knowledge, Bruce Wayne is no danger to you. But I will...look into him.”

__________

Bruce has a headache, and it’s only half metaphorical.

Dick cartwheels up to him, Tsura scampering behind him as a badger - ever since they met Kate, she’s been trying to mimic Zevel. They both pause at the look on Bruce’s face, Dick lingering in a headstand and Tsura shifting into a tinier and less feathered magpie that makes Bruce’s chest lurch with some warm, unidentifiable feeling. Minka lands in front of her, radiating amusement.

“Careful B,” Dick grins like a cheshire cat. “Alfie says your face can freeze like that.”

Without a word, Bruce sweeps Dick up in one motion, placing the child carefully on his shoulders and walking on like nothing happened. Tsura squawks as Minka prods her forward, flapping her little wings.

“Have you eaten?” he asks, because Alfred had been out when he called him, and he doesn’t like the idea that Dick’s been alone for the last half hour.

“Not yet, but I’m only a little hungry. Hey, I can see everything from up here,” Dick observes, resting his hands on Bruce’s head. Bruce can’t be certain if he’s purposely trying to make his hair stick up in ridiculous ways, but it’s a fair assumption. “You’re like my own personal pet giraffe. In fact, what if-”

“If Tsura settles as a giraffe, we’re moving to a savannah,” Bruce says. Dick pouts.

“But imagine us running around Gotham!” he argues, nearly falling from Bruce’s shoulder. “Giraffes can kick like nobody's business, B. Criminals wouldn’t know what to think!”

“They would think, oh look, there’s Dick Grayson’s giraffe daemon. What’s she doing with Batman and Robin?” Bruce reaches the kitchen, and leans so Dick can leap onto the counter.

“Buzzkill,” Tsura - a cat now - mutters as she jumps up to the counter and sits in Dick’s lap. “I’m going to settle as an elephant now.”

“If that’s what you feel like you are, I will happily finance our relocation.“

Bruce stares at the line of boxes in the open cabinet for a full ten seconds. He’s almost twenty-seven. He’s an adult. He’s _Batman_ , for crying out loud, he can figure this out. Minka helpfully picks one at random, flying up and knocking it into his hands.

“So what’s the problem? Does Superman still want you to do a background check on yourself? Wait.” Dick wrinkles his nose as Bruce stoops to grab a pot from the cabinet. “Are you cooking?”

“I am an adult, and you are a hungry child who is under my care.” Bruce fills the pot with water, mindful of Minka picking at the cardboard box next to the stove. “I trust you to draw conclusions.”

“Yeah, but…” Dick exchanges a wary look with Tsura. “Are you like... _cooking_ , cooking?”

“Listen to that, Bruce,” Minka blinks over at him. “We’re being criticised by a child who refuses to eat crusts on his sandwiches.”

“At least I can make a sandwich without using yogurt instead of mayonnaise!” Dick retorts. “I’m scarred for life, I hope you know.”

Bruce frowns, stirring the water. He’s fairly certain it’s supposed to boil before he adds the cheese powder.

“That was one time. I was very tired. And they have similar appearance and consistency.”

Dick snorts.

“You’re hopeless. You know who probably knows how to make a _super_ sandwich?” Dick rolls into another handstand on the edge of the marble counter, and Bruce hadn’t realized he was old enough to have a heart attack as Tsura perches on the heel of his foot, looking supremely unconcerned. “Superman.”

“No acrobatics around open flames,” Bruce manages, gesturing to the stove, not wanting to startle Dick into losing his balance - the counter isn’t that high, but the floor is hard, and if he falls backwards Bruce won’t be able to catch him -

Dick just laughs at him, switching to balancing on one hand instead, and Minka croaks in distress.

“Dick, I swear - “

Before he can move, Dick neatly falls backwards, landing on his feet.

“Ta-da!” Tsura becomes a dragonfly, flitting in circles around Dick’s head as Bruce tries not to clutch his chest that’s suddenly pounding. Minka speaks for him.

“If you do that again in our sight, you can forget about post-Robin training icecream for a _month.”_

Dick scoffs, but doesn’t make a move to climb back on the counter - that’s a win, from what Bruce has learned.

“So what’re you gonna do about him?”

“I’m going to tell him…” Bruce trails off, frowning again at the water as it begins to simmer. “Bruce Wayne is of no concern to him.”

“What about the whole, Brucie-Wayne-funds-the-Watchtower thing? Think that might be of concern to him?”

“You,” Bruce sighs, headache returning. “Are far too young to be so smart.”

Dick grins, Tsura fluffing up proudly from his shoulder, a bluejay.

“If I’m so smart, that means you gotta listen when I tell you, that even _I_ know you don’t pour cheese powder into boiling water.”

“I - fu -” Bruce cuts himself off, yanking the pot from the stove just as it hisses with overflowing, cheesy water. “Da - dagnabbit!”

“You curse like an old man when you're around us,” Tsura informs him blithely, a hummingbird hovering above his head. “Just say fuck.”

Bruce whirls, water slopping onto the floor.

“Richard John Grayson!”

Dick laughs again as Tsura flits away, landing on his shoulder as they leap down from the counter. Bruce’s headache is increasing in steady inches. He...he’s certain kids and their daemons aren’t supposed to swear as frequently as Dick and Tsura do, but he is at a loss what to do about it when half the time those swears are in languages even he doesn’t know.

He just sighs, placing the pot back on the stove and turning the flame down. Minka peers at the mess from his shoulder, clicking her beak.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” Dick sing-songs. “But B. Superman. If you become best friends, can I meet him? Is it weird he doesn’t have a daemon? Is he sad and mean 'cause he's alone all the time?”

“I’m not going to become best friends with someone who can level a city if he has a bad day,” Bruce grits, tentatively relighting the stove.

There’s no response to that, and with a jolt, he realizes that that’s maybe not what a hero-idolizing child needs to hear.

Dick’s kicking the ground, lips pursed. Bruce and Minka exchange a look, regret and alarm passing between them.

“Nah, I guess you’re right,” Dick says, eventually Tsura shrinking back into a bluejay. “I guess.”

“I - he - he’s not mean,” Bruce manages, as Minka glides down next to Tsura. “He’s actually.” Minka glares up at him as he fumbles. “He’s very...nice. He asked about you.”

Dick looks up, expression shining.

“About me?”

“Yes,” Minka croaks, nudging Tsura. “He was wondering if Dick Grayson was okay when Batman rescued him.”

“I was fine,” Dick whines. “But you said he’s nice?”

Bruce sighs, eyeing the pot that’s starting to boil again. The water is a tepid orange.

“I suppose.”

“And he really doesn’t have a daemon? Just that alien bluebird?”

Bruce frowns.

“It’s a highly advanced piece of AI, Dick, but you’re correct. Kryptonian metaphysicality - ”

“Blah blah, Dust, souls, whatever,” Dick waves a hand, hopping back onto the counter. “Does he have friends? People who know he’s all alone without a real daemon?”

“He has the Justice League.”

“You’re the Justice League,” Tsura points out with a chirp.

“I am _supporting_ the Justice League,” he corrects. “I don’t have time to...completely be a part of them. I help where I can. They’re still barely a cohesive team at this point, not...” he trails off, uncertain of what he’s about to say.

They’re not a team, not in how a team should be. He’s still holding himself back, he’s aware. He and Minka have discussed the costs and benefits, and reached an uneasy agreement. For now, their distance from the League is for the best. Particularly when he’s taking care of Dick and trying out this whole nerve-wracking “Robin training” idea at the same time.

And of course, there are still...things about himself, that he can’t convince himself that they’ll understand, or accept. They’ve barely adjusted to seeing him at a distance from Minka. Learning of their...situation, might be too much. Their perspective of them now is already unsteady, and he hasn't done much to dispel their distrust. As open and accepting as they claim to be, there is only so much judgement they can withhold.

The condition of a daemon, of a soul, is never taken lightly. And something so significant could always, _always_ be weaponized against him.

He trades a glance with Minka. She inclines her head, eyes sharp and shining. She knows what he’s thinking.

“Whatever. You should be friends. With all of them. And Superman.” Dick shrugs, like it’s settled. Tsura leaps to his shoulder, transforming midair into a fieldmouse. “Everybody needs friends, B.”

Bruce sighs, wondering if Dick had arrived at the conclusion himself, or he’s just quoting that clip of Gordon from the bug implanted on the roof from the night Superman had shown up - a surprisingly subversive move, from Bruce’s analysis of Kent’s personality, but informative all the same. He owes Gordon a cup of coffee, certainly.

“Fine,” Dick says primly. “Maybe Superman doesn’t want to be friends with you. You’re too grouchy.”

“I am not..” he squints distastefully at the now ferociously boiling orange water. “Grouchy.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are _too-_ ”

“Please step away from the stove, Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice cuts through their argument, and they turn to see him and Niamh standing in the doorway laden with bags. “Otherwise I will have to resort to immediate and disproportionate methods to stop you.”

“It’s macaroni and cheese, Alfred,” Bruce says, throwing his arms up. “I disabled a bomb in 45 seconds last week, I think I can manage…” He squints at the box. “Velveeta shells and cheese’.”

“First of all,” Alfred enunciates, plucking the box from Bruce’s hand. “If I find out who exactly brought this packaged garbage into this house, that somebody is going to be organizing cabinets for the next month.”

Dick starts whistling innocently, Tsura becoming an angelic-looking kitten who hops down to the floor and stares up at Niamh with wide eyes.

“Secondly,” Alfred continues, “The very fact, Master Bruce, that you compare bomb-making and cooking, is not as reassuring as you think.”

“Bomb-defusing,” Minka corrects, fluttering down to sit at Niamh’s enormous paw. Dick's laugh rings through the kitchen, and Bruce sighs again, though this time with a lighter chest. 

He's going to have to make some choices about the Justice League. Sooner or later. But not now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (In case you forget)
> 
> Bruce - Minka, black-billed magpie  
> Dick - Tsura, unsettled (for now)  
> Alfred - Niamh, Irish Wolfhound  
> (and, mentioned!)  
> Kate Kane - Zevel, North American badger


End file.
